User blog:Squibstress/A Slant-Told Tale - Chapter 12
Title: A Slant-Told Tale Author: Squibstress Rating: MA Genre: Drama, romance Warning/s: Explicit sexual content; violence; abuse; alcoholism Published: 23/05/2017 Disclaimer: All characters, settings and other elements from the Harry Potter franchise belong to J. K. Rowling. Chapter Twelve 26 October 1956 “Minerva?” At first, she wasn’t sure if the voice had been in her head—she had heard it in her dreams often enough to allow her to identify it immediately. But when she looked up from her paperwork, there he was, beaming down at her like a benevolent apparition. “Professor Dumbledore!” she said, knocking her quill from the table in her haste to stand. He bent down to retrieve it, and as he handed it to her, he said, “I’m sorry if I startled you, my dear.” “No, I just wasn’t expecting to see you here.” That, thought Minerva, is the understatement of the year. “Well, that makes two of us, then,” he said. “I certainly wasn’t expecting to see you in London, much less here at the Ministry.” “Yes, I … I’ve come back.” “Well, that is good news indeed.” His voice grew soft and grave as he added, “I heard about your husband, of course. I’m very sorry.” “Thank you,” she said, wondering how he had heard of Gerald’s disappearance. It wasn’t likely to have made the Daily Prophet. “Have you had any more news of where he might be?” “No, Professor.” “We must continue to hope, then,” he said. “Are you planning to stay in Britain, or will you be returning to France?” “No, I intend to stay.” “Well, you must come for tea, then. Let me show off my new office,” he said. “Oh, yes … I heard you had been made headmaster after Professor Dippet’s retirement; congratulations.” “Thank you. It was all rather sudden, but Armando’s health has been poor. I confess I am in a bit over my head at the moment.” Minerva doubted that and said so. He said, “In any case, I should like the chance to avail myself of your wise counsel on a few matters. And, of course, to renew our acquaintance. May I owl you?” “Certainly. I am staying with my parents in Moray at the moment.” “Wonderful. You may expect my owl, then.” He clasped her hand as they said goodbye. Minerva was trembling slightly as she put her quill to the parchment once again. Meeting Albus Dumbledore so unexpectedly had thrown her. He had haunted her dreams and thoughts throughout the past twelve years; not just memories of the time they had spent together—although she woke with an aching emptiness between her legs often enough when she dreamt of it—but of what he would think if he knew what she had done. And now … She squeezed her eyes closed as she forcefully pushed such thoughts from her mind. She could not afford any weakness at the moment. The irony of meeting him as she was filling out the paperwork to have Gerald declared dead was not lost on her, however. His owl arrived four days later, inviting her to tea at Hogwarts on Sunday next. As she surveyed herself in the mirror while she made ready, she wondered what he would think of her now. Her robes were well-turned and fit perfectly, but they were a bit threadbare from too many repairs, and her shoes were hopelessly out of fashion. Her hair had grown too long, she realised, and she used her wand to shorten it and remove the straggled ends. It was not nearly as tidy a job as a proper hairdresser would have done, but it was neat enough, she supposed. She peered at her reflection and knew she was no longer pretty. At thirty-one, she had deep furrows in her brows, and her eyes had become slightly hooded, with dark blue-grey circles underscoring them. Her lips seemed set in a thin, horizontal line, and her nose had finally regained its normal, straight, unremarkable form with a little help from her wand. She was too thin by half, she knew, and her cheekbones jutted out from above the concave slopes of her face, making her chin look even more pointed than it was, and her collarbones made sharp ridges along the neck of her robe. Her skin was pale and dull. She briefly considered using makeup, or even a glamour, but quickly dismissed the idea. He would no doubt see through such artifice, and it wasn’t as if she were trying to seduce him. As she trudged up the path from the gates, she had to fight to keep the apprehension at bay. There was no way he could know what she had done, she told herself, but Albus Dumbledore seemed to know things that no one else knew, and it was not necessarily because he was a Legilimens. The gargoyle that guarded the entrance to the headmaster’s office seemed to be expecting her, because when she presented herself to him, he merely said, “Please enter, my lady,” as he rumbled aside to let her pass. “Minerva! I am delighted you could come. Please, come in,” said Dumbledore as soon as she appeared in the doorway. He took her cloak and sent it to the hook near the door. She looked around; she had only been in Headmaster Dippet’s office on a few occasions, and it didn’t appear much different than she remembered. The only noticeable change was the tall glass case that graced a corner of the large, airy room. In it were suspended several phials of a silvery substance, and next to it stood a stone Pensieve on a pedestal. Dumbledore said, “Ah, so you’ve noticed my memory cabinet. One of my little luxuries, I must confess. I like to have my memories readily available for perusal. I used to keep them in cigar boxes, but now that I have a bit more space, I had this built. What do you think: Too ostentatious?” “No, it’s beautiful,” she replied. And it was. The light reflected off the glass and shone through the phials, which refracted it in shafts of brilliant colour around the room. Minerva wondered if the memory of the time he had made love to her was contained in one of the phials. Did he ever take it out late at night—try to relive it—as she would have done if she had had a Pensieve? No. She gave her head a slight shake to clear it of such a foolish thought. “Won’t you sit down, Minerva?” asked Albus, gesturing to an overstuffed chair near a small tea table. When he had served the tea, he asked, “How are you, Minerva? Really?” “I’m fine, Professor. It’s been a difficult few months, but coming home has been a balm.” “Please call me Albus. And your son—I’m sorry, his name escapes me—” “Malcolm.” She was immediately on her guard. “Yes, Malcolm. How is he?” “He is as well as anyone could expect.” “How old is he now?” “Eleven.” “Eleven already! May I enquire as to why he is not at Hogwarts? It is none of my business, of course, but I am naturally curious.” “He is at Beauxbatons. He had been looking forward to starting there this autumn, and I thought it best to maintain some stability in his life.” “I see. It must have been a difficult decision, though, to come home without him.” “Yes, it was.” She did not trust voice to say more. “Forgive me for prying, my dear, but have you been able to find employment since returning to Scotland?” “I have been hoping to secure some private pupils, as I did in France. It is taking longer than I anticipated, but my mother and father have been most generous in allowing me to stay with them until I am back on my feet.” “You realise, no doubt, that my motives in asking you about your circumstances are not entirely unselfish.” “Aren’t they?” He gave her a small, knowing smile. “No. You see, I find myself in a rather desperate situation.” “Oh?” “Yes. Since becoming headmaster, I have been trying to find someone to replace me as Transfiguration master, but I have been sadly unsuccessful at finding a suitable candidate.” She said nothing, and he continued. “Do you think, Minerva, that you might consider taking up the post?” “Me?” “Of course. You are by far the most qualified candidate that has crossed my path, and you would be doing me a tremendous favour if you would consider it.” She didn’t believe him for a moment. Her reputation in Britain had been good during and after her apprenticeship with Griselda, but that was a decade past now. She had enjoyed the good opinion of the French magical academic community—at least until word of her domestic difficulties had begun to circulate—but that kind of information didn’t tend to cross the Channel, and she had published no research that would have boosted her reputation internationally. Why was he doing this? He seemed to know what she was thinking, as he so often had in the past, because he said, “A research reputation is all very well and good, of course, but I want someone who can teach. And for that, my dear, you have a talent that is as rare as your ability to take feline form.” So he had been watching her from afar. She felt her cheeks begin to flush. “Forgive me, Minerva, but yes, I have followed your career since you left Hogwarts. Is that so surprising?” She shook her head. “Griselda was kind enough to fill me in from time to time on your remarkable progress during your apprenticeship, and I have friends in France who were able to provide some news on occasion. I believe you were the tutor to the granddaughter of a colleague of mine at the International Confederation—a Mademoiselle Bonaccord?” “Marguerite, yes,” said an astonished Minerva. “The reports I have heard all suggest you are an excellent teacher, and that is what I am looking for. Tell me, Minerva: Do you enjoy teaching?” “I … yes … well, I did … I …” “I know as well that it became difficult for you to retain pupils, through no fault of yours.” “Yes,” was all she could manage. “I am sorry. So you see why I had hopes you might consider coming to teach at Hogwarts? In the interest of total disclosure, I would also ask you to take on the post of head of Gryffindor House, as I cannot continue in that capacity. Your wages would reflect the added responsibility, of course.” When she didn’t answer, he said, “I should also tell you that any past … personal association between us did not factor into my decision to offer you the post, and that it would not affect my professional regard for you should you come to work here. I hope that you would feel the same.” Minerva left the meeting with a sample contract in her hand and feelings that roiled and churned within her breast. Working at Hogwarts. With Albus. Merlin, how she wanted to accept! It seemed the answer to all her prayers had arrived in the space of one afternoon. A job she could love in a place that had felt like home for so long, alongside people who could make her feel safe. And steady money, which she needed now more than ever. Could she do it? Could she ignore the tremendous secret she had hidden from everyone, as if it had nothing to do with him, or would it eventually overwhelm her if she saw him every day? How could she have forgotten how much Malcolm’s eyes resembled his? Could she really look into them day after day and keep the secret? And how could she face him day after day—this man who had instilled in his pupils so adamantly the important difference between what is right and what is easy—knowing all she had done? Could she do it? Two days later, she had a signed contract and a date to move her things into her new quarters in Gryffindor Tower. She was terrified. She was elated. ← Back to Chapter 11 On to Chapter 13→ Chapters of Slant-Told Tale, A